Winter Ball! On Ice
by shilo1364
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky is so DONE with his so-called friends and their ridiculous ideas. A "Winter Ball" for skaters? Really? Ugh. Otayuri / Yurabek / whatever this ship name is One-shot. Background Victuuri, Mila/Sara, Emil/Michele, Leo/Guang-Hong.


Yuri slumps in his chair at the edge of the rink, crumbling the remains of a ginger snap and glaring out at the ice. A disco ball spins overhead, scattering glittering rainbows across the ice, and GOD that's so tacky. It was probably Yuuri's idea. Victor wouldn't... Oh, who is he kidding? Victor totally would. This whole train wreck of a party - this optimistically named Winter Ball - was his idea, after all. Well, his and Yuuri's, since they never do anything separately anymore. He's honestly not sure they'd survive on their own at this point - either of them.

Victor and Yuuri are in the center of the ice, wrapped around one another, twirling and gliding slowly across the ice - sickeningly sweet, as usual. Yuuri gets a wicked gleam in his eye, visible all the way across the room, and then dips Victor, trailing his gloved fingers down his chest, slow and sensuous. Yuri gags and looks away.

A glass of punch appears suddenly in his vision, and he takes it, grunting his thanks as Otabek leans back against the wall beside him with a quiet thump. He raises the glass to his parched lips and then pauses to frown at it, suspicious.

"This isn't spiked, is it?"

Otabek almost smiles. His eyes brighten, anyway, which is as close to a smile as he ever gets. Yuri wonders for just a second what those lips would look like, curved into a smile, and then he shoves the thought down to join all the others he's determined not to think. He won't ruin the friendship they've built - he _won't_.

Otabek touches his shoulder gently with one finger to get his attention, and Yuri absolutely doesn't wish that the touch was less fleeting.

"Why would you think it's spiked?"

The words that would be angry, accusatory on Yuri's tongue are only curious on Otabek's. Yuri clenches his fist around the glass - which is made of ice, of all things - and doesn't wish that he'd display _some_ emotion. He nods toward the disgustingly sweet couple gliding across the ice. "Because if they're like that sober, then I'm leaving right now."

Otabek's eyes seem to brighten even further. "Don't worry. I stashed a bottle of punch in the kitchen earlier. Chris might have spiked what everyone else is drinking - probably has, in fact - but he hasn't tampered with this."

Yuri offers a slight smile as thanks. The punch is soothing to his dry throat, fruity and sweet and, as promised, without the bitter tang of alcohol.

The music changes, from a sappy love song to an even sappier love song. Yuri scowls and picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. He secretly loves this song - dances his cat around his room to it, when Grandpa isn't around

to hear - but he has an image to maintain.

Emil, who has been whispering in the corner to Mila all evening, suddenly darts forward, slinging his arm around Michele's shoulders and dragging him onto the ice while Mila does the same to his sister. They both ignore the twins' laughing protests, and soon the four are dancing _terribly_ , completely out of time with the beat. Yuri narrows his eyes. Mila wouldn't sink that low - would she? Sara bats her eyelashes, and... is that a _blush_ on Mila's cheeks? Traitor.

He turns away in disgust, only to see Guang-Hong and Leo making their way onto the ice, hand-in-hand, blushing and giggling, and Chris, shamelessly dirty-dancing with his boyfriend, and, yes, there's Phichit, bouncing around taking pictures of the unfolding disaster, and GOD. Yuri can't stand it, he really can't. He crosses his arms tightly across his chest and _glowers_.

He's so busy glaring, it takes him a minute to realize that the thing that suddenly obscures his view of the ice is in fact Otabek's hand. When it registers, he looks up, glare falling away to be replaced by a puzzled frown.

"Beka?" he asks, looking between the hand and his friend's impassive face.

After a beat, Otabek's eyes glint with challenge, the only change in his blank expression.

"Well," he says after a moment, in which Yuri just stares at him, "are you going to dance with me, or not?"

His brow quirks up at the end, almost as if he - is he making fun of himself? Yuri thinks he might be, and damn if it's not adorable.

Then Otabek is smiling - grinning - and Yuri stares, frozen, because he's never seen anything quite so beautiful before.

Otabek, growing impatient with his lack of response, reaches down and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together and dragging him onto the ice.

The song changes to an even sappier one - and how is that even possible, really? - but Otabek's fingers are warm, and still laced with his, and his other arm wraps around him, pulling him close, and he's _still_ smiling. Yuri can feel his face heating up, and he's probably grinning like an idiot, and he's definitely ruining his Russian Punk image... and he can't bring himself to care.

He leans his head on Otabek's shoulder and lets his eyes drift shut as they waltz slowly across the ice. Let the others be as disgusting as they like - he no longer cares. How can he? Because now, in this moment, he has everything he has ever wanted. Not even the gold medal that hangs proudly in his room feels as good as this.

And when Chris brings out his portable stripper pole - and, really, who the hell could possibly think that pole dancing _on the ice_ is a good idea? - he doesn't even scoff. Well, maybe a little. But Otabek is already leading him off the ice, tenderly removing his skates, and Yuri has far more important things to worry about than those idiots he grudgingly admits - to himself; he's not stooped _that_ low yet - are his friends.

"Where are we going?" he asks, when Otabek tosses him his helmet. He doesn't particularly care - it's just something to say, because he is not going to blush, dammit.

Otabek shrugs, strapping on his own helmet, swinging his leg over the bike and then patting the seat behind him. "For a ride," he says, and then, "does it matter?"

Yuri doesn't bother lying. "No. Not so long as I'm with you." He wills his cheeks not to flush, but suspects that he's not particularly successful.

Otabek just smiles. "Good."

Then they are pressed close together on the bike, and the night is rushing past them, the cold wind whipping his hair around his face, swirling snowflakes stinging his eyes, and Yuri wraps his arms around Otabek's waist and rests his cheek against his butter-smooth leather jacket and feels like he is flying and falling all at once. The city lights streak by like shooting stars and he closes his eyes and wishes as hard as he can that this moment, this feeling, will never end.


End file.
